


A kiss...

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: Kisses... [9]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 19:03:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16143533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: ... on a place of insecurity.





	A kiss...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xylianna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xylianna/gifts).



> **Big bold reminder that Final Fantasy XV and all of its content is property of Square Enix.** I just like to play in the sandpit they've created for the fans.
> 
> If this looks familiar to you, that's because it is. This used to be part of a multi-chapter pain-in-my ass, but I've decided to take that down and make every chapter a standalone oneshot. Apologies for any confusion caused.
> 
> Prompts are from [this list](https://wrathofscribbles.tumblr.com/post/177169224758/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a).

Nyx’s shirt puddles around her feet as she looks in the mirror, frowning at everything she sees, from the mess of hair falling in riotous tangles down her back to the freckles on the bridge of her nose to the scar on her cheek to the mole under the swell of her right breast (her off switch, as Nyx likes to joke despite the clip upside his head every time) to the many, many marks decorating her arms and legs in badges of honour for her defense of Insomnia time and time again.

Once upon a time she used to look in the mirror and judge how thin her limbs were, how pronounced her pouch of a belly was, if she was too tall or too short or just right or if she needed to lift her head a little higher to fit the collar of her uniform better.  Funny how war has changed that, has her finding everything that _is_  there, plain as day for all to see, with laser precision.

And okay, the moles and scattered birthmarks aren’t so bad as identifying features should she meet her end out on the battlefield, and Nyx is certainly taken with how “cute” they are, so much so that he’ll content himself to kiss each and every one every minute of every day if she let him.  She _can_  tame her hair with some maintenance, and rapping Nyx’s knuckles with a comb whenever he tries to sneak a feel and massage her scalp and turn her to putty before she’s even had a chance to wake up from her morning coffee.  And maybe the scar is a nice addition, a rugged kind of beauty to it, a stamp on her face that says _I survived the daemon that gave me this, what can you claim to have done?_ Her body is her very own lean, mean, fighting machine, hours upon hours every goddamn week put into keeping herself in shape for that one sprint that could save a friend’s life, that one last nugget of precious energy buried somewhere deep in her bones that could keep a barrier in place long enough to get civilians to safety, that one extra swing to take down the last in a group of MTs, that one vital throw of an ice spear to swing the tide of battle in their favour against a particularly vicious daemon, the focus and _willpower_  needed to keep herself together during a warp, to stitch up her seams if they came unraveled so she doesn’t lose herself in that place _other_ , never to claw her way free again.

She should be proud of her body and what makes it hers.  And she _is_ , damn it all to Ifrit’s Hellfire and back... but for one mark.  One scar she never should have received in the first place.  If she’d just been faster, if she’d just been smarter, if she’d actually listened to all the warning bells that went off around Luche in the months leading up to the rebellion - then maybe she’d have pegged him as a traitorous bastard and torched his ass the very moment the van’s door slid aside to reveal his face.

Oh sure, she’d been on her toes for a scrap anyway (anyone in their right mind being tailed by a van would be) and she’d thrown up a barrier just in time to deflect the shot he’d meant _to kill her with,_ but he’d still managed to land a hit.  He’d still caused damage.  He’d still marked her, _scarred_  her, and every time she sees the ruined flesh on her shoulder she wants to delve into the darkest magics and summon him back from the dead just to kill him all over again.  She shouldn’t have this bullet wound, fresh and red and imperfect compared to all the others she’s collected over the years.  She shouldn’t have the burn marks to go along with it, because the fucker thought bringing fire to a fight with _her_  was a good idea, she shouldn’t -

She could’ve - she _should’ve_  -

Crowe blinks at the addition to her reflection, Nyx’s hand sliding over her hip and splaying wide on her belly as his face appears from the shadows behind her and comes to rest on her shoulder, sleep-heavy eyes meeting hers in the mirror, lips curling into that soft smile he keeps tucked under his smirk, a secret only for her.  She expects him to nose at her hair, because he usually does that with a sigh of contentment she never thought anyone would find at her side, or maybe _breathe_  on that spot just below her ear because he knows it tickles and she’ll squeal without fail, but he does neither.  No, his lips find her shoulder, skim from the curve of it all the way up to where it meets her neck, pausing on the tendon there and she expects a bite -

“Come back to bed, beautiful.”  He says instead, and keeps her rooted firmly in front of the mirror when both arms fold her up in his embrace, warm and welcome and _safe_  against the horrors that charge through her skull and the memories haunting her dreams, her present, her _skin_.  Another kiss to her shoulder, and another, and another, slow in that way he is when he has more than half his weight still stuck in the realm of slumber, body swaying gently this way and that to a beat she can’t hear but copies anyway, the sudden _absurdity_ of it all batted away with how he manages to soothe her soul and calm the pick-pick-pick of her fingers over fraying nerves and insecurities just with his presence, his _certainty_  that this is where he wants to be.

With _her_.  In _their_  bedroom.  His fingers linked with hers and his voice a humming rumble in her ear.

His heart for her hands alone.


End file.
